


All the King's Horses, and All the King's Men...

by captivated_prince (CynicalMistrust)



Series: Aimeric Lives [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because it's Aimeric after all, Fluff, M/M, Really though it's mostly angst, Reunions, possible triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 07:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16970568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynicalMistrust/pseuds/captivated_prince
Summary: He healed, physically. His unseen wounds, however, were not so cooperative, tearing anew every few mornings, whenever he thought he was finally getting used to the constant ache.His wrists healed, no longer requiring bandages, but the skin had not healed smooth. Ugly, uneven scars marred each wrist, and he spent hours each day staring at them, tracing his fingers over them, some small part of him thinking he could rub them smooth again, like water over jagged stone.





	All the King's Horses, and All the King's Men...

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I read the books, so I couldn't remember what season it should be, or if Aimeric ever actually knew who Damen is, so excuse the liberties taken.
> 
> This also turned out much longer and much more angst-filled than intended, but there was no stopping it...

Days dragged by, turning to weeks, as Aimeric did as he promised. He lived, or rather, he stopped trying so hard to die. He ate. He slept. He allowed the physician to tend his wounds. He even went for walks in the garden when he regained his strength. He healed, physically. His unseen wounds, however, were not so cooperative, tearing anew every few mornings, whenever he thought he was finally getting used to the constant ache.

His wrists healed, no longer requiring bandages, but the skin had not healed smooth. Ugly, uneven scars marred each wrist, and he spent hours each day staring at them, tracing his fingers over them, some small part of him thinking he could rub them smooth again, like water over jagged stone. They ached, still, and the physician couldn't promise that would ever fade. The damage had been deep, and he'd been mistaken for dead too long, his pulse faint enough when he'd been found it was a wonder he'd survived long enough for someone to realise he still lived.

He did his best to keep his mind off the darker thoughts. Walks in the sunshine helped, or struggling with relearning how to write, when he could hardly hold a pen. His handwriting suffered for it, resembling a toddler's first attempts more than that of a noble's son. The effort to regain use of those fragile muscles was enough, most days, to keep him occupied, but the despair and helplessness and worthlessness found ways to creep back in, when he lie awake at night and watched the play of moonlight on his ceiling.

The nights he fell asleep peacefully with a dry pillow beneath his cheek were few and far between. The nights he stayed asleep through the night, rather than wake gasping from nightmares, were nonexistent. There were always sinister shadows then to greet him. A looming figure standing over him, reaching for him, and the urge to scream building in the back of his throat, though he knew better than to give it voice. His skin crawled with phantom, half-remembered touches, despite the heat between his legs. Night after night he woke, stifling desperate whimpers in his pillow as he spilled into his own hand, chasing memories of Jord while the memories of _him_ chased after.

And through it all, the desire for it to end, before he could be used again, be used _against_ anyone again, caused his wrists to ache and itch, taunting him.

He was well enough to ride after three weeks, if he was careful and took it slow, and it was then the physician moved them from the small home they'd been imposing on. It wasn't until then he realised someone had to have promised payment, to shelter him and keep his secret, and felt a new weight of guilt at what Jord must have done to secure those funds.

They rode into the countryside around Ravenel, resting a few times throughout the day, but they reached their destination by nightfall. A small cottage with a bit of land. Jord's family home, though there was no one to claim it save Jord. There was a single servant who served as cook, housekeeper, and groundskeeper, a woman not quite yet past her prime. She took their horses and handed over a letter in return.

He stared at the parchment without opening it for several long minutes. News of what was happening, had happened, he was sure. He'd done well to put such things out of his mind, though it was easy when the past seemed determined to haunt him. It wasn't until he was shown to his room and he was sitting on the edge of a simple bed that he dared to open it.

Jord's lazy scrawl greeted him, messy with haste as he assured Aimeric he was alive, but things were far from over, and they were going to Akielos.

Aimeric frowned, turning the page over, searching for more, but there was nothing else. Dread coiled in his gut as he read over the words again. Akielos. They were going into the heart of enemy territory. Did that mean Laurent had secured his crown and was working to reclaim Damen's as well? As toxic as he'd been lead to believe Laurent was, even a blind man could see what was between those two, and he squashed the sudden surge of jealousy and resentment by digging his thumb into his left wrist.

While the wound had healed, the muscles and tendons beneath were still tender enough he felt a deep ache throb up his arm. It was a habit that would likely cost him; he could already tell his left wrist wasn't healing quite right, the strength far slower in returning than in his right.

He set the letter aside, exploring the few rooms other than his own until he found the larger bedroom with a desk tucked to the side. There was paper and pen, though as he sat, words failed him. What could he possibly write to Jord that he would want to hear about, other than the fact he yet lived? There was no sense adding worry to his situation, no matter how desperately he wanted to tell Jord how hard he was trying, despite the guilt and the nightmares and the constant desire to simply go to sleep and never wake.

No, Jord didn't need to know any of that. And even if he had something worth writing, his penmanship was still illegible.

He tucked the paper back into the drawer, closing the door behind him.

The following days were quiet. He kept to his routine, glad for the small garden Lyse kept, even if half of it were vegetables. The physician left the next week, leaving a small bottle of sleep aid behind. It sat untouched on his bedside table.

The next letter came a week after, three pages long and far more detailed, listing out what had happened. The battles, the trap and betrayal at Kingsmeet, the trial. His heart skipped a beat as he read of _his_ execution, fear and anger and relief surging through him with such intensity he could hardly breathe. The parchment shook as he forced himself to continue reading, refusing to let his mind wander down paths of _what if?_

Damen had been wounded in the power struggle, but would live and was expected to recover, if he would stop trying to leave his bed.

There was still work to be done, and Jord would remain in Ios for some time, and looked forward to receiving word from him there.

Aimeric tucked the letter away with the first and stretched out on the bed, unease swelling in his chest. If it was all over, well and truly over, Jord should have no reason to remain in Ios. He had less reason to return to Aimeric. Perhaps, like Lazar, Jord would find an Akielon, more suited to his tastes and without the stench of traitor clinging to him.

As the days slipped by, growing longer and hotter, that niggling thought blossomed, shedding light on every self-doubt he carried inside himself. His sleep grew more restless, until he became accustomed to staying awake until shortly before dawn and sleeping until high noon had passed. Lyse was rarely seen inside, though there was always a meal waiting for him when he woke. He caught glimpses of her in the garden or the stables, heard her when she returned from the market some evenings as she tucked away her spoils.

They didn't speak. The last words he'd spoken had been to Jord, and as the time and distance between them grew, some part of him had decided he wouldn't speak again until Jord came back to him.

He was starting to think he would die before then, mute and alone and already believed to be dead by anyone who'd known him.

The nightmares worsened, enough that he tried the sleep aid in hopes it would work. It did, and instead of waking to shadows and clouded memories, he remained asleep, trapped in the body of his ten-year-old self as he lie motionless on the bed, the covers peeling away before shadowed hands removed his clothes, caressing his skin, soft, murmured praises following lips on his chest and lower, fear and pain and the desire to please this stranger, because then maybe his father would finally be happy with him, all overwhelming him until he woke with a muffled scream.

Sunlight blinded him as he rolled over, retching over the side of the bed. Sweat and tears soaked his pillow, his hands shaking as he reached for the glass of water on the table. He wasn't really thinking as he poured half the bottle of sleep aid into the glass and drained it. He was just grateful that when it finally went to work, it dragged him into a sleep deep enough dreams and nightmares couldn't touch him.

The mess was gone when he finally woke, though he had no way to tell how long he'd slept. His head ached and his tongue felt too large for his mouth. Fresh water and a bowl of fruit waited for him and he managed to finish half of both before noticing the letter.

Damen had healed enough to walk without risk of reopening his wound, and plans were in motion to unify the two nations, once they were both coronated and marked as the rightful rulers of their own kingdoms. And there was still yet more work to be done.

Aimeric tossed the letter aside with a near hysterical laugh without reading further. He'd known from the start not to get his hopes up. That whatever Jord promised had been promised when what had been between them was still a palpable, tangible thing. He'd known it wouldn't have a chance to survive outside that room, that once Jord returned to the Prince's side, he wouldn't want to leave. Who in their right mind would try to lose what comfort and protection a powerful ruler could offer?

Sending him here, to Jord's childhood home, had just been a ruse, a way to keep some semblance of control over him, to keep him from causing trouble. And it wasn't like he could blame anyone but himself for believing it. Even broken and betrayed and tossed aside time and again like refuse, there was still a part of him that desperately wanted to believe _maybe this time._

Sunlight was fading as he made his way to the kitchen, a numb sort of haze wrapping around him. There would be no finding him this time, not until the deed was well and truly done. He found a small knife, the edge sharp enough he cut his finger testing it. The pain was a distant sensation as he stared at the cut, a clean slice of flesh, before the blood started swelling between. He stood and watched it with a sick sense of fascination, wondering how long it would take for news to reach Jord, or if he would only learn of it when he returned, years from now, and how angry he would be, or if he'd be more relieved to not have to tell Aimeric he'd broken his promise and had come home with an Akielon and would need his home back.

Hot tears spilled down his cheeks and he closed his eyes, gripping the counter with his bloodied hand as he choked back a sob. There was a sound behind him and he spun, finding Lyse with her basket, returned from the market, watching him like she'd found a wounded and cornered animal.

The knife clattered to the floor and he stumbled back, hitting the pantry door before his legs gave out, pulling them to his chest as the sobs broke free. He wasn't expecting the hesitant touch of arms around his shoulders, flinching back with a gasp only to find Lyse pulling him closer, stroking his hair with soft, nonsensical murmurs.

He buried his face against her shoulder and cried as hard as he had after Laurent had shattered his world, as hard as he had the morning Jord left. All the tears he'd kept bottled up inside since he was ten and told himself showing weakness was a luxury a fourth son would never have spilled free, until he was left hiccuping and clinging to Lyse like a child. It was a comforting sensation he'd felt only once before, when he was seven and had fallen off his horse when it spooked. He'd walked away with mere scrapes and bruises, but had been shaken to the core, enough that he'd gone straight to his mother and crawled into her lap, and she'd held him for an hour.

They kept their silence as Lyse gently guided him to his feet and to the table, fixing him a cup of hot tea before putting together a simple dinner. He stared into the golden liquid, fingers wrapped tight around the cup, soaking up its heat as the air cooled with the setting sun.

He should leave, he thought. There could be no peace to be found here, for him or Jord. Staying would just be inviting more and prolonged pain. Better to leave, cut away his last tie to his past, make a clean break.

Lyse pressed her hand over his wrist and when he met her gaze, he knew she somehow sensed his intentions. She made no attempt to sway him, merely motioned to the food. So he ate, and drank his tea, let her fix a bath, and washed away what little he could of feeling unclean.

By the time he made it back to the bed, he felt sleepy in a way he hadn't since being on the road with the others, though it was a far cry from the bone-deep exhaustion that came with hard travel. He wondered, briefly, if the tea had been drugged, before deciding it didn't matter. He closed his eyes and slept, the dreams kept at bay by some unseen force, though he still woke in the middle of the night, groggy and confused where or when he was, his limbs unbearably heavy. He blinked slowly at the living shadows around him, focusing on the chair beside the bed he didn't remember being there.

The shadows were denser there, and his heart suddenly beat hard and rabbit-quick in his chest. Was it a thief? Or someone who'd finally learned he lived and came to finish what he seemed incapable of doing himself? He'd taken to leaving his door open, even while no longer actively trying to harm himself, because some part of him welcomed the possibility of someone else doing it for him.

The shadows moved, and even in the dark his breath caught as he recognized _him._ “Hello, Aimeric,” he said, voice soft and deceptively gentle.

He licked his lips, hardly daring to move. “You're not real,” he murmured, voice high as it hadn't been in years.

“Am I not?” he asked, standing and seeming to float across the distance between them before sitting on the bed. He reached out, brushing back Aimeric's curls, knuckles ghosting against his cheek. “You always were lovely.”

Aimeric squeezed his eyes shut, body frozen even as his mind screamed _Don't touch me, don't touch me, please don't hurt me anymore._ He felt the fingers on his throat, sliding down his chest, and when they continued past his stomach, he finally found the strength to put voice to his thoughts. “Don't touch me!” he screamed, his voice still high, though closer to breaking than before. “You're not real!”

“I'm right here, pet.”

Aimeric shuddered with helpless rage and fear, though for once his eyes remained dry. He forced himself to look as the shadows faded like so much mist, and he was left looking at _him,_ the same cold eyes, the same hair, the same lying lips. A man. Just a man, who'd been powerful enough to ruin the life of countless innocents. A man who'd finally reached the limit of his power and found himself wanting. “You have no control over me anymore,” he growled.

His face twisted, his hand moving to Aimeric's throat and squeezing, though there was no strength behind the grip. “You're _mine_.”

“You're _dead_.”

And with that, he vanished.

Aimeric slumped back into the bed, exhausted, his heart still pounding, though sleep was quick to reclaim him.

He spent the entirety of the next day writing a letter.  


 

_Jord,_

_Lyse is copying this for me as my penmanship is lacking. I've sent the originals so you can see that truth for yourself._

_I won't lie and say I'm doing well… Daily tasks are a struggle, both as I regain my strength and from the energy needed to do something as simple as get out of bed. But I'm trying. I promised you that, and while I've had days where I came close to breaking that promise, I haven't yet._ ~~_If I do_~~ ** _…_ ** _No. I haven't yet. That is the only thing that matters._

_And so it pains me to say that by the time you read this, I will be gone. I've imposed upon your home for too long, though it was nice to see it. I can imagine you running in the garden, between the potatoes and the carrots, perhaps with a dog on your heels, as you fight off attackers only you can see with a broken stick fashioned into a sword…_

_I'm sorry, Jord._

_I know there is little I can do to make up for what I did, but I am sorry._

_I don't know where I'll go. I haven't planned that far ahead, and if this entire ordeal has taught me anything, it's that I'm terrible at planning anyway._

_Don't leave the new King's service for me. We both know it would be a mistake. And if they are truly determined to unite the kingdoms, they'll need all the most loyal and trustworthy men at their sides._

_If you find someone, I wish you the best. You deserve to be happy._

_~A_

 

He thought maybe he should change his name, if he were going to fade into the world, but he doubted it would cause an issue. It wasn't as though many knew what he'd done, and believing him dead, those who did weren't likely to spread that knowledge further.

Once the letter was entrusted to a courier, he found a pair of scissors and brought them to Lyse. His hair had grown long and unruly, and it was cumbersome in the heat. He sat outside while she cut away most of his curls, leaving just enough length he could feel it against his neck and ears. It felt like a weight lifted off him as the wind blew the locks away, the vice-tight grip that had been locked around his mind and lungs the past weeks finally easing off a bit, enough he could breathe easier. Enough he could watch the sunset and see the beauty in it, rather than seeing it as the sun setting on another pitiable day of his worthless life.

Lyse finished touching up his hair and ran her fingers through the short, almost-curls a few times before squeezing his shoulder. Then she turned, going back inside to finish dinner and leaving him to his thoughts.

He drew a knee to his chest, looking out over the garden and the fields beyond. The town and small market was visible from where he sat, and he knew Delfeur lie further to the south. Maybe he’d go to Isthima, or Patras. Or find work on a ship and sail the oceans. There were other lands, beyond what just touched their coasts. Full of people who couldn’t name the Kings, much less know of a traitor thought to be dead.

Movement on the road caught his eye and he squinted against the sunset, watching a horse appear in the distance. They seemed to be in no hurry, though as they drew closer and the cottage would have come into view, they picked up speed, settling into an easy canter. A messenger then, though it was a bit late to be handing a message over now. Unless-

His heart skipped at the thought of it being some urgent news. Civil war in Akielos, and Jord on his deathbed after helping to quell it. The idiot _would_ be stupid enough to demand someone write a letter for him should it come to that, and demand it be delivered with all haste. He watched with his heart in his throat as the rider approached, the sun blinding him to any discernible features.

It wasn’t until the rider stopped some feet away and dismounted that Aimeric thought he recognised the rider’s gait. “ _Jord?_ ” he asked, voice rough with disuse, as the rider came close enough to be visible. He stood, moving to meet him and wondering if this was another dream. “What are you doing here?”

“Days of hard riding, and that’s the greeting I get?” Jord asked, but he was smiling as he reached out and clasped Aimeric’s shoulder. His eyes flicked to the shortened hair and the smile faltered, tilting his head as he touched the edges, just above Aimeric’s ear. “What did you do to your hair?”

Aimeric shrugged, resisting the urge to touch it himself as a wave of self-consciousness washed over him. He hadn’t expected anyone who knew him to see him like this, least of all Jord. “I cut it,” he said softly, unable to keep from glancing past Jord as he stepped back, expecting to see someone trailing behind him.

“Ah…” Jord let his hand drop away, glancing up as Lyse appeared and smiling. He embraced her and kissed her cheek, retrieving his pack from his saddle before handing over the reins. He looked back to Aimeric, looking him over a moment as an awkward silence fell between them. “You look good,” he murmured, “with your hair like that.”

Aimeric felt his face warm and nodded his thanks, hesitating before following Jord as he headed inside. The lamps were lit and the smell of a hearty stew and fresh bread filled the cottage, and he couldn’t quite stop the smile as he heard Jord’s stomach grumble.

“I need to clean up,” Jord said, leaving Aimeric at the table as he disappeared down the hall.

Aimeric dropped into a chair with a frown. So much for his plans. He should have known better than to think it’d be that easy, though he couldn’t help the way his heart was beating a bit faster, a warmth settling in his gut around a coil of excitement.

Jord was back. Jord was _here._ Even if it was only for a day, he’d still kept his promise, which was more than he could say for anyone else.

He glanced up as Lyse returned, a smile tugging at his lips as she started humming. She cut the bread and filled the bowls, setting them on the table by the time Jord returned, hair damp and smelling more like himself rather than horse.

All through dinner, Jord told them the story of what happened, adding more details than he could have ever hoped to put into a letter.

“And they’re _still_ wearing those damn cuffs,” Jord said with a soft laugh and shake of his head.

Aimeric couldn’t imagine it, that Laurent would ever agree to such a thing, even if it were Damen requesting it.

Lyse poured them both a cup of tea and then excused herself, retiring for the night.

It was getting late, and without Lyse’s presence as a buffer against things unsaid, silence fell between them. Aimeric lifted a hand as if to brush back his hair before remembering there was no longer any need, curling his fingers around his cup instead. “Do they still believe I’m dead?” he asked softly.

Jord winced, shifting in his seat and leaning forward, propping both arms on the table. “No,” he murmured, splaying his fingers around the rim of the cup and turning it in its saucer. “Damianos-Exalted is apparently unable to keep secrets from his beloved when bedridden and plied with pain-killing drugs,” he said dryly, sounding as if he were quoting someone else. “But what’s done is done. The rightful heirs have been restored. Most of those responsible for the coups have been taken care of. Unfortunately, the difficult part is still ahead.”

Aimeric nodded faintly, staring at his tea. Peace was easy enough to achieve, but it would be far more difficult to maintain. If anyone could do it, it would be those two. “And…” he started, voice threatening to break. He swallowed and took a steadying breath. “Is he really dead?” he whispered, not daring to look up.

“Yes,” Jord replied, voice firm, and Aimeric was grateful when he offered no details of how.

He nodded again, another weight lifting away, though despite the relief, it hurt. He blinked as his eyes blurred, silently cursing himself when he’d been doing so well. He shouldn’t be crying; _he_ wasn’t worth his tears, but he wasn’t crying for _him,_ but for himself, and all that had been taken from him. “Sorry,” he whispered, swiping at his eyes and forcing in a shuddering breath.

Jord moved around the table, wrapping his arms around Aimeric and stroking his hair the same way Lyse had.

He laughed through the tears as he recognised the similarity, pressing his face into Jord’s neck with a quiet sob. The tears didn’t last long, but even after they passed, neither of them moved for several long minutes, until he finally sighed and lifted his head. “You must be exhausted,” he murmured.

Jord hummed softly. “A bit,” he said, pulling away, though his fingers lingered in Aimeric’s hair. He hesitated, studying Aimeric a moment before finally stepping back. “Would you like to share my bed?” he offered quietly.

Warmth fluttered in his chest again as he nodded, letting Jord tug him to his feet. They blew out the lanterns and he stopped in his room long enough to change before joining Jord in the larger one. He hesitated at the foot of the bed before crawling in beside Jord, shivering as he found himself wrapped in strong arms and tucked against a warm chest.

“How are you?” Jord asked softly. “Really?”

Aimeric closed his eyes with a sigh, relaxing into Jord. “Better, the past few days, I think,” he finally murmured.

Jord hummed, running his fingers through Aimeric’s hair, caressing his cheek and neck with featherlight, almost reverent touches. It was a few minutes before he said, “I got your letter.”

Aimeric startled, flinching back as his eyes flew open, staring at Jord’s chest in the dark. “What?”

“I met the messenger on the road. I grew up with him and his brother, and he remembered me.” He sighed and rubbed the stubble of his chin against Aimeric’s forehead. “You truly planned to leave?” he asked softly. “You truly thought I would have fallen for someone else, knowing you waited for me?”

Aimeric shrugged, unable to think of a response to that. “I figured it would be for the best,” he finally said, not sure which question he was answering. Likely both.

“I see.” Jord’s fingers returned to his hair. “I won’t stop you, if you truly want to leave,” he said. “But I still hope you would stay. And I haven’t left the Guard, but I’ve been given a month of leave. I plan to stay here for it.”

Aimeric kept silent as he considered. There was no hurry to get to Isthima or Patras or work on a ship. Not now, anyway. Not while he was next to Jord, pressed into his warmth, and could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. “Alright,” he whispered, tipping his head back to look up at Jord. He could see how this went. It wasn’t as though he had anything else to lose.

He caught the shadow of Jord’s smile as he leaned closer, their noses touching as he rested their foreheads together. “Alright you’ll stay?”

“Alright I’ll stay,” he agreed, a soft breath of a laugh escaping as Jord tightened his arms around him. He inched his own arms around Jord and shifted closer, pressing a leg between Jord’s like he had when they’d shared a tent, relishing the close contact since it was something _he_ had never allowed. He tilted his head, bumping his nose against Jord’s, a tingle of relief spiraling from his scalp and down his spine when Jord took the invitation and pressed their lips together. It was slow and unheated, though that suited him just fine. He wasn’t sure he could handle being any more intimate right then, when he’d been so close to giving it all up a few hours ago.

When Jord relaxed towards sleep, he slid his hand up to stroke through his hair, smirking faintly at the soft moan when he scratched along the stubbled jaw.

He intended to stay awake through the night and simply watch Jord sleep, sure if he closed his eyes for too long, he’d find him gone. But he’d never slept better than he had those nights they’d shared a tent, and his body remembered that well enough he was asleep shortly after.

And when he woke in the middle of the night, it wasn’t from a nightmare, but from Jord snoring in his ear.


End file.
